


The Hours

by oceansinmychest



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: They engage in a dance that means both nothing and everything. It's downright torturous.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based off of the song, The Hours, as composed by Phillip Glass. It's truly a beautiful piece.

Sir Malcolm Murray's study was a fantasy, catering to the ideal notion of a story book illusion. Trophies were mounted high on the walls, well preserved heads of vicious jungle animals. Fangs and tusks carried a menacing gleam, he polished them daily. An atlas marked the wall, a map of the world proudly on display with little tacks to pin his various achievements. Books adorned the case, their golden spine almost holy at a glance.

Music played softly, the wail of a violin and the melancholy tune of a piano collaborating together in a delicate symphony.

It was the tune you heard in a play or even the opera, but no angel of a soprano wailed her Italian lullaby.

Worn, calloused hands seized hold of her pale ones. For a woman slight of build, all in blank, her strength betrayed her looks. Their fingers intertwined, his shoulders rising and falling with as much vigor as an ocean fighting off Mother Nature. He was light on his feet, gliding across the room, spinning her 'round and 'round.

Dreams of childhood bubbled up to the surface, memories of the music box with its erratic tune that she played constantly until it became off-key. For she loved the gift dearly. He purchased it for her, baited her with its silver lining.

He dipped her at an angle, finesse in his wild movement. His bright, blue eyes grew stormy and she wondered if the sorrow behind them was her fault for he was not teaching his daughter to dance (surely he did), but another.

The movement gradually became erratic, his palm dipping to caress the curve of her hip. It was innocent at a glance, though his touch lingered – warm and heated, not nearly as icy as the bite of his words.

Wicked visions came to her in the tight embrace – a glimpse of a young woman he encountered on his various travels. Her hair was dark, her eyes haunted and savage. Another infidelity. It was not his wife's name he uttered in the dimly lit in.

It had been an unmistakable, low rumble to match the steady thrum of thunder: Miss Ives.

She wished she hadn't seen, wished that the gift had shown her his kills for his prowess was absolute. His strength magnificent, as spell-bounding as the musculature depicted within Greek and Roman art.

And he dipped his head forward, his lips parted though his teeth peaked out. A rattling, sharp inhale inflated his lungs. He seemed conflicted. She knew it to be true. She danced to match his bouncing rhythm, before halting altogether. So sudden, so still.

He thought of his time in Africa, hidden by blades of tall, aged grass. He spotted a lioness by the watering hole. She was so beautiful, so lethal and yet, he let her live.

Close enough for a kiss, she grew as still as stone in his sturdy arms. She dared not to flinch. She forgot to breathe.

You wretched, loathsome man. What are you waiting for?

A hand slid down the valley of her cheek while he looked into her eyes, glistening brighter than any jewel he gave to his daughter. His wife to mask his flaws. 

“Not today,” he whispered with a voice barely there, cracking like the glass of scotch he launched across the room the night before.

He remained a man in mourning.


End file.
